


Until we jump the fence and leave it behind

by kimabutch (CWoodP)



Series: RQG Femslash Week 2020 [4]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canon-Typical Violence (briefly mentioned), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, but mostly I want her to have a conversation with Saira, canon-typical parental neglect (discussed not portrayed), spoilers for Cairo arc, there would definitely be big plot effects to Aziza not dying, with brief spoilers for Damascus arc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:26:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23312338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CWoodP/pseuds/kimabutch
Summary: Aziza doesn’t die at the opera. Returning home to recover, she has a much-needed conversation with her sister.Written for day four of RQG Femslash Week: Canon divergent/AU.
Relationships: Aziza al-Tahan & Saira al-Tahan
Series: RQG Femslash Week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672117
Comments: 19
Kudos: 42
Collections: RQG Femslash Week 2020





	Until we jump the fence and leave it behind

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Suburban Wars by Arcade Fire. 
> 
> Thanks to Babs for beta-reading, and the Red String Brigade for the encouragement and hair advice.

After Kafka’s attack on the Prague Opera House and the fight that so nearly killed Aziza, leaving her a crumpled heap on the floor, bones broken but lungs still breathing —

After Hamid’s mercenary group brought his shapeshifted body and his friend’s corpse back to the University, leaving Aziza’s husband to tend to her —

After the al-Tahan family received word from a meritocratic agent that the University was in lockdown, that Hamid was safe and would come home as soon as he could —

After Aziza’s brief hospitalization in Prague and the fastest teleportation to Cairo that money could buy, to allow her to be with her family in her recovery —

After a tearful familial reunion that had lasted for several meals before everyone headed to bed —

It’s late morning, and Saira is sitting at her bedroom desk, looking over paperwork that she’s taken home. None of it is particularly urgent, but it’s good to be able to excuse herself for a few minutes. She’s in the middle of looking over a report from the Damascus mayor about their water crisis when she hears her bedroom door open, revealing Aziza, brush in hand and grin on her face.

“Do my hair?” Aziza says. “Mother wanted to take me out for lunch.” 

“Can’t you do it with your —” Saira says, flicking her wrist in an imitation of her sister’s Prestidigitation, but she knows that Aziza isn’t looking for her hairdressing skills. 

“I’ve never been able to get that spell quite right,” Aziza says, and she knows that Saira knows, too, because she’s walking over to the desk and handing her the brush even before Saira sighs, relents, gets up from her chair. Aziza takes a seat and pushes her hair back towards her sister. 

Saira runs the brush through her sister’s thick, wavy hair, as familiar to her as her own. She waits for Aziza to begin the conversation that she’d come here for, but she doesn’t speak. “You’re handling it all very well,” Saira says eventually.

Aziza laughs, sweetly and clearly like she always has. “I guess I am,” she says. “It’s funny, isn’t it? A necromancer nearly killed me and my brother two days ago but I feel fine.” 

“Mm?” Saira says as she begins to pleat Aziza’s hair. “Are you sure you’re not just compartmentalizing? Like you always tell me not to?”

“I don’t think so? I’m not sure. It’s a bit of a blank spot in my memory, actually. Everything from when I started singing to when I woke up in the hospital just isn’t there. I don’t even remember seeing Hamid or his transformation,” Aziza says, a slight hint of regret in her otherwise bright voice. “It’s strange to have Mother crying over something I can’t even remember.” 

“I can imagine. She’s being… very Mother. She barely spoke a word to me when we got the news. Neither did Father, but that’s not surprising.” 

“Yeah, he’s not said much since I got back,” Aziza says. “I don’t think he knows what to say. It’s honestly not bad, with Mother being how she is.” She laughs again, shorter this time. “Never thought I’d be glad for his standoffishness.” 

“I’m sure it’ll get old again soon,” Saira says. “Tie?” 

Aziza passes back a green ribbon. “Oh, for sure. But how are you? You’ve been pretty quiet, too. And you’ve been hiding out in your room, doing _work_ ,” she says with a faux-disgusted tone in her voice, gesturing to the paperwork on Saira’s desk. 

“It’s important work, unlike _singing_ ,” Saira teases back, smiling. She finishes the bow, and on instinct, Aziza rises and Saira takes her place in the chair, switching roles like they’ve done a thousand times. Saira feels Aziza remove her hair clip, let her tight bun fall out, and begin to brush her hair. She leans into the soothing and familiar rhythmic motion.

“Seriously though, how have you been?” Aziza asks again. “It’s been a few months.”

“It’s been… pretty great, honestly,” Saira says. “I hate to say it, but you were right about taking a new job. It’s really fantastic to be out of it. Well, as out as I can be.”

“You’ve been staying weekends at the house?” Aziza says. 

Saira sighs. “Yeah. Keeping an eye on the family,” she says, with _‘because no one else can’_ hanging unsaid between them. “Saleh’s been acting so strange lately, and he won’t tell me anything. His drinking is just getting worse. No one’s heard from Hamid in months until he showed up in Prague with his... mercenary group? I know he dropped out, but I think there’s something more. Mother is being so secretive about it. She’s been arguing with Father about whether the boys should go off to school in England, but they’re acting like it’s fine.” As she speaks, Saira’s shoulders slump down with exhaustion. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to put all of this on you after… everything.”

“Hey, no, no apologies” Aziza says, and suddenly she’s no longer brushing Saira’s hair but wrapping her arms around her shoulders, hugging her from behind. Aziza holds her in silence for a moment, her chin on Saira’s head. “Do you know what my first thought was when I woke up in the hospital? _I can’t let this stop me from singing. I can’t go back_.” She sighs. “You need to leave, Saira. Not just the company. Cairo, too. There are other Meritocratic offices further from home, and when you’re close… it’s just too easy to go back. There’s always going to be problems with the family. You can’t keep taking them all on yourself.”

Without warning, the tears that have been building up for weeks — months? Years? — spill from Saira, and she heaves a sob. In Aziza’s arms, she cries, her whole body shaking, letting out everything that she can’t let the others see. Aziza holds her tight, nuzzling her head into the crook of Saira’s neck. She begins to hum. It’s a familiar tune, slow and simple and lacking any lyrics, far removed from the songs of opera halls. There’s something sad to it, a calm, deep, reconciled grief, and a memory comes to Saira from years ago: her sister’s first trip home from university. Every night, Saira had asked to sleep in Aziza’s bed, to be as close as possible for as long as she was there. Every night, Aziza would relent, holding her and singing that same song as Saira fell asleep. The singing then felt as it does now, as a quiet, mournful apology. For leaving, for not bringing her along, or perhaps, that the world was like this at all.

The lilting song steadies Saira’s breathing, and eventually, Aziza loosens her hug and returns to her hair, still humming as she begins her braid. Aziza’s motions are slow and deliberate, extending her work for as long as she can, allowing Saira to calm herself. By the time she’s finally worked her way to the end, Saira has wiped away her tears with a handkerchief. She feels a bone-deep tiredness, as if at the end of a long day. Aziza finishes tying the bow, and, hands resting gently on Saira’s shoulders, kisses the top of her head. 

“I should go,” Aziza says softly. “Mother’s waiting. You’re invited to lunch if you’d like, but…” 

“I should finish my work,” Saira says, and she knows that this is the expected excuse. She turns in her chair to look at her sister. “You’ll be back for dinner?”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” Aziza says. “I’m staying until Hamid gets back, at least. It’ll be nice to have the whole family together.” 

“It will,” Saira says. “Thank you.”

Aziza smiles, a little sadly. “Of course,” she says, taking one of Saira’s hands in hers and squeezing it. 

As Aziza walks out of the room and Saira turns back to her desk, her heart feels heavy and warm all at once. She sighs, and returns to the letter. It’s good to have her back. 


End file.
